Blue violet, Red
by Taotatum
Summary: Captured and locked in the same room with the figure who's fallen from grace and into something darker in his thoughts, can Trowa keep his sanity and his adoration for one evolving blonde, or must it be one or the other? xxx Two part fic. 3x4. Quasidark.
1. Webs of Deceit

"The world is a lie." 

In the dingy light that flittered through the heavily grated window seven feet above the cold cement on which they now sat, Trowa looked over at the beautiful boy who he had once held in near idol-like status. That was almost half a year ago. At that time, the blonde had been too clean, too divinely perfect to disgrace with a touch, or even with a covetous glance. It had been safer to horde such thoughts deep in the cellar of his mind, like a dragon perched on a mountain of gold coins. It was a foolish view, and he knew that undoubtedly. It was dangerous to place someone so high when he'd seen him walk and talk just like most people, but it was still something that couldn't be helped. From the moment he'd heard the hiss of Sandrock's latch opening and seen the sparkle of gold as the amazingly delicate pilot stepped out into the earth-given sunlight, he'd felt that something was off. He imagined it was what one biblical man (he couldn't remember the name) had once felt when he'd seen an ordinary plant burst into flames and knew then that he was in the presence of the proverbial 'More'. More than human, more than normal, just More. Only his years-placed mask had allowed him any semblance of dignity.

Now the young man that was pilot 04 had changed in his silently adoring vision. There was still that childishly naïve light that sometimes danced within his brilliant aqua eyes, suggesting perpetual innocence in spite of the known blood he'd shed, but for the last six months he'd been watching it die like a terminally ill patient in a hospital bed. The smiles that had once been glittering displays of honest joy even in the middle of a dark age of men were now masking things that always held hints of pain, suffering, and deeper thought. They were given as a way to escape questioning; those concerned 'Are you okay' inquires rarely came when you were sunny-faced and he had watched Quatre learn that.

In the recently passed time, he'd watched the body he'd once stared discreetly at for hours and still found impossible to accept as a soldier's go from too delicate but still neatly compact muscles and energy, to hard and untouchable, then too thin, and finally a state that was almost uncared for. Quatre's always pressed clothes started displaying casual wrinkles, his shining hair turned a lackluster shade, and his hands -- Artist's hands -- had turned rough from the controls of his gundam. The nails, usually so slim and so perfectly almond shaped, suddenly short and bitterly bitten down though he didn't know when.

Perhaps that would have been enough to sway his opinion, to slap himself with reality that Quatre was just another fucked up child of war, but instead of crumpling, he'd prevailed through this change. Like a butterfly emerging from a dust covered cocoon, Trowa had watched a new being emerge that wasn't Quatre, but yet was. It was a new, strong and learned being, and he was still deciding if he liked it or not. The soft lines around his angel on a pedestal were gone, his golden halo fallen and dented beyond repair, and in it's place lingered something much like the feared and loved deities that had once dominated Old Africa. Those were hungry gods who showed their anger through bringing down flames on their people from the bowels of noisy mountains and superstitiously they were appeased by the spilling the hot blood of their followers.

The boy who looked back at him, aqua jewels in sallow yellow moonlight peering from the shadows, was Quatre. He was Trowa's ever-shifting god, angel, and blood-thirsty idol.

He was waiting for an answer.

Slowly, feeling the ache that had settled into his long limbs from sitting so long flare up stingingly, the Latin youth pushed himself further upright on the mildly damp cell walls. Between them, like a black watchful eye, the small covered drain gurgled impatiently of the reeking sewers it hid, and it was to this that his gaze drifted indifferently as he opened his mouth and softly offered a response. To stare at the politely angry gaze of his cell-mate would drive him slowly mad.

"Maybe some of it, but there's still truth out there somewhere."

The sigh he heard in return was enough to inform him he hadn't pleased the blonde, and he knew without looking up that dark eyes were being rolled, and the once plush and now often dry and torn bottom lip had been pulled between sharp teeth to be nibbled thoughtfully again.

"No. I don't think so. From the moment we are born, to the very second we die, we are being lied to. We are raised to accept it, and we pass it on like some hereditary disease."

He played it wise this time. Rather than venture a true opinion, possibly causing the dormant but threatening volcano to blow it's top, Trowa merely allowed this to go where Quatre wanted it with soft prodding and guidance. "Why do you say that?"

"Because it's the way it is, Trowa."

After a second of silence, warily, he risked glancing up from beneath his protecting shield of bangs and watched the Arabian lean his head back on the cold stone. Quatre's upset and questioning eyes, which someday would demand answers, drifted first to the ceiling above, then closed with the dark lashes pressed to curving cheeks that still resembled a child's, and all was safe again. For now. Pale, abused lips parted, and he listened warily as Quatre's thoughts were elaborated.

"When a child is born, the lies start within a few years... As soon as the parents believe that the child can understand them actually. They start with good nature, as most things do, but a lie with nice intentions is still just a lie in the end. By age two, most children believe full-heartedly in a man named Santa Claus, who if he ever existed, has been dead for hundreds of years. They believe a story that this man flies around the world in one night, fits down a chimney despite him being reported as 'plump', and delivers gifts just because he can. They also believe he has a mild form of telepathy apparently, because he 'knows' when you've been naughty or nice. Now, if we were smart at that tender age and didn't expect our parents always to be the guardians they claim to be, with thoughts only for our welfare, shouldn't we actually wonder why the hell a raving madman like that has been allowed to break into houses for so long unhindered?"

Blinking, Trowa felt a wave of unexpected sadness creep in as Quatre so clinically tore apart a youthful tale that he'd known for years. It wasn't necessarily his own beliefs, he'd been past his 'Santa-craze' years ago, nor was Christmas typically a happy time of year for him, but it was still something you were used to hearing and accepting. Even adults held onto to that story and still smiled over it. Santa was a figurehead for the season, real or not. But acknowledging that society accepted it so readily, he could see why Quatre -- who'd once confessed he really didn't know much of the holiday and sometimes felt he was missing out -- could feel that way. It was a lie, though legend seemed a better label to him. Really though, weren't they one in the same?

"Same with the giant bunny that lays eggs and gives them out. There is no rabbit on this planet that births through eggs, and the only mammal I've even heard of doing so is a duck-like creature in Australia. Not to mention the complete dismissal of the strong maternal instincts all animals share. And that lie was based off the birth of a man who has nothing whatsoever to do with colored treats and chocolates! … Though that one, too, bothers me."

"There are a million such examples like that, Trowa. The innocent lies that parents feed their children, and all before they even reach adulthood. The tooth faerie, leprechauns, unicorns and things like that. Then there are also the lies that kids get from other kids."

Personally, Trowa would have loved to say he had some faith that at one time, there had been a creature that was vaguely horse-like and had bore only one horn. Magic or not, part of him wanted to believe that the image that adorned so many fantastical dreams had to have once been based off truth. Dragons as well. It wasn't such a far stretch, was it? After all, there were thousands of species that had once walked the Earth in plenty, but has vanished long before man had arose to power. And sadly, even more since their appearance, forced to extinction through the growing number of humans and their perpetual demands for space. Creatures vanished every day, turned into myths that lived only through the pictures on paper and the words of remorseful mouths. That didn't mean they had become lies.

His eyes drifted over the pinched curve of Quatre's brow and the tight frown of his lips. Looking at him with his masks finally set aside and seeing a child that had been abused as surely as any other though in different, more political ways, he kept his silence a little longer.

"I was home taught, Trowa… For **most** of my life. I think I told you that. One year though, my father broke down to my lonely begging, and I attended fifth grade at a private school with other boys."

"I came back that first week convinced without a doubt that there was a Thing in my closet. It had been there all the time, even before I was told it was there, I** knew** that then, and it had just been biding it's time until I was ripe. Until that little boy so innocently shared the lie his parents had told him, presumably to get him to behave, I had been a relatively good sleeper and never had troubles. For a month after that, I woke my sisters, the maids, and my own father screaming up and down the halls that I was about to be eaten."

A frame shaking sigh worked it's way out of Quatre's narrow chest, and Trowa felt reasonably sure that it was released not for his own tainted childhood, but for him having just admitted to being a hassle for that single stretch of thirty days. If there was blame to be accepted with anything, Quatre was always the first to step forward and offer little hands to hold it all.

"Those are just the fantasy lies, the creature ones, if you will. Then there is a multitude of others that are even more scarring… They are, of course, given with even stronger 'good intentions'." One stormy ocean eye winked open, drifted away from the tell-nothing ceiling and fell on him. For now, it bore no unspoken rage, but just the wish to further communicate on a more intimate level and Trowa could meet it without any of those recently disturbing worries. "Those, I guess, are best labeled the 'life lies'. They start with the ever famous 'you can do anything if you try hard enough'.

"If someone tries, extremely hard, then yes, maybe they can get a lot done… But that isn't what people say. They say -anything-, and that simply isn't true. No matter how hard you try, how many years you put into it and how much you work yourself to the bone, some things just cannot be done or cannot fall into place for some people."

"Someone who is sick from birth, suffering constant illness and spending half of their childhood in bed because of a heart murmur they can't control, or being born with a small organ here or there, is not going to become a combat soldier who will save the world through his hand to hand fighting techniques. A man who cannot perform basic hacking, spell, or really type to save his life, is not going to invent the next world-wide computer program no matter how much he wants to. The little boy who was born to a prostitute who couldn't afford her safe guards that one time because she had to eat that day will not lead a country, and neither will a prince ever get away from the responsibilities he was born with. They can do a lot, Trowa, maybe get half way to those goals, but there will always be one wall that is too high, and they will be turned away."

_And one nameless child of war cannot pilot a gundam. Cannot aide in ending that war, in making a difference… But Quatre, have you forgotten that we already have? That -you- have? None of us are really the expected material to carve heroes and saviors out of, not even Wufei if only because of his age, but that's what happened. Duo's an orphan and a thief, Heero just a mentally disturbed child, I'm just… Just a **nobody**, and you're just a spoiled little rich boy, right? … I wish I knew who jaded you so much as to stop seeing whatever you once saw in us, so that I could pick up my guns once more, and put a bullet into their brain._

So many thoughts and valid points, and yet Trowa couldn't force his lips apart to voice a single one. Part of him knew it wouldn't come out right, that in his calm monotone it would seem uncaring and insubstantial. Another part, the new part that he supposed had come with Quatre's changing, was afraid to because he might relight the dormant spark just beneath the waves in those blue eyes.

"Doctors lie to patients only to go behind their back and speak the truth to their families. Lawyers make fortunes off of their lies. The rulers of countries lie to the people they'd protect. Nothing is done in honesty any more, Trowa." Slowly, he closed his eye again, and the soft down-fluff of his hair was pressed into the uncaring surface of the wall as he tipped his head backwards. "In truth… I don't know if it ever was done for that reason. Maybe lies were born into existence with the first person. It's an incurable disease now, and we all have it… Even our own bodies lie to us."

Disease. Even in his chosen state of emotional distance, that word reached him and yanked on his strings of expression. His lips curled downwards into a thoughtful frown and the single visible eye just past a fence of auburn bangs darkened with distaste.

It was a word that brought such a reaction from many people. Even in a time when they'd cured things that had once meant death to whomever caught them, it was still a commonly unknown horror. It wasn't the boogey under the bed, or a thing that lurked in the dark. It was a killer, and it was real. All of humans' research had merely tamed that beast a minuet amount… And sometimes, it mutated and left life speechless in the wake of it's devastation.

It was a word that he hated to hear in such reference fall from the lips of the boy who used to smile at strangers and whose day was once made by the sun shining warmly above.

"Quatre… It's not that bad. You're just…"

Who was he to be delivering pep-talks? It wasn't his job, and certainly not his specialty. The tragic-kissed lips that turned down in an unhappy frown on Quatre's face made him want to try though. His throat gave a dry click, and after swallowing painfully past it, he looked to his forced companion and continued in a misuse dulled voice. "Right now things look bad, but it's not always going to be like this."

Strangely, his words brought a smile to the blonde. An upward tilt to his mouth that had nothing to do with good humor or joy, and it made the Latin pilot want to cringe.

"Trowa, it always -has- been. You say so sweetly, and forgive me, so naively that it's not going to stay like this… But how can you when it's been like this since years and years before we were here? Before books were written and people still cringed from explosions and blamed them on spooks?"

_I can say it because I think I love you. Because I'm not ready for the mountain on the edge of my sanity to erupt into flames, and for my illusions to be pulled apart like the wings off a moth, but mostly because I love you._

He said nothing like that, what emerged when his lips parted was a feeble attempt at diversion, and Quatre let him get away with it. "What do you mean that our bodies lie?"

Head quirked to the side, the Arabian considered for a second, then recognition lit his eyes warm cerulean again. He scooted across the cement with his leg shackles clattering behind him like bones, and Trowa fought a wave of revulsion.

One pale arm, bruised along the lifelines of the wrist from where the wide arm bands had been fastened earlier, was brought a few inches from his face. Flakes of rust clung to the milk and cream flesh.

"What do you see right there?"

Looking past the appendage and at the serious face beyond it, Trowa swore he heard the drums of sacrifice begin.

"Your arm."

"No. Trowa. Not that." Like he was chastising a puppy, the blonde tapped his nose with his other hand, then brought his fingers up to point at the small clustering of veins at the inside base of his hand, so clearly etched out beneath his thin skin. "Here. The veins. What do you see?"

Pounding now. Aching cries in his head like thunder. Yet like all before him had felt, he still wanted to please. "I see… Your skin. It's too pale now, Quatre. And it's… It's dirty? I see your veins clearly, and that's not a good sign."

His answer was rejected by a weary sigh, and something in his chest cracked a little. "No. Not that stuff. The color, Trowa."

"Blue." His eyes dropped to those pulsing branches of life, so close to him. At the slight nod of encouragement he got from Quatre -- _Good Trowa. Good boy. I'm trained now._ -- he elaborated and hoped for more. "Blue-violet."

"But blood is red, isn't it?" Quatre shifted around to his side, arm still up, until Trowa felt the welcome and electric weight of him leaning on one shoulder. The other pilot was resting his head there, so calmly, as if he knew he belonged, and if he turned his head just a little, he'd be pressing his lips to the soft crown of that hair and he would know heaven.

He stared resolutely forward, stiff and unyielding.

The blonde looked at his own wrist with a mixture of distaste and wonder, his voice soft and musing as he continued on, unaware of the turmoil within the Latin youth. "It's red, when it touches the tainted air of this world. Inside, it's blue-violet, and that's the truth. It flows in your body, rousing organs into functioning, coloring cheeks, creating pleasure or making us feel faint, and it's blue-violet. But in movies, it's always red. In pictures, it's crimson, and it sprays wildly. The world makes it a lie, just like everything else."

_It's oxygen that does that! Not lies. You know that! Quatre, what is -wrong- with you?!_ His lips were glued shut, but his ears were open to hear another breathy exhale from the young man who could have once been the wealthiest man in the universe, maybe the bachelor of the year, or the youngest successful business owner.

The voice that followed it was like wind through the reeds framing a black-water pond, dead and lost. "Just once, Trowa. I'd like to get a cut, and I would like to see the flesh part to flow out something as clean as that purple-cobalt color. It would make it all okay again… That's never going to happen though, is it?"

He didn't know how to answer that.


	2. Wings of Truth

It was roughly three hours later, by Trowa's internal clock, that the silence of their darkened cell was disturbed once more. 

Beside him, the angelic form of Quatre shifted in his light doze, murmuring incomprehensibly before tipping his face and nuzzling at the side of his friend's jaw with his nose. In sleep, Trowa could again see the traces of the angel who originally ensnared his heart. That dark demanding beast that lurked beneath the surface of Quatre's psyche had been banished into whatever mental closest it had come from once more.

He looked away from the dark triangle of shadows at the corner of Quatre's lips. It was that natural crease which he'd been unconsciously looking at for more than a quarter of an hour now as it silently dared him, when he recognized the rise and fall of boot heels coming their way.

"Quatre. Wake up. Someone's coming."

Lightly spoken, most would have slept through that, but instantly he felt the blonde start coming too. There was one moment when that head was lifted, a spot of warmth on his shoulder regretfully fleeing in it's wake, where the young man blinked blearily at him and then he was tense and alert. Quatre stared at the door calculatingly.

In their state; cold, a little hungry, and still coping with the drugs that had been injected into them when both sets of cuffs had been in place, Trowa knew there wasn't much they could do unless someone was foolish enough to come in here alone. Perhaps Heero could break his way out of a populated military base while drugged, and likely with several gunshot wounds and broken bones, but he wasn't Heero. Neither was Quatre. It would be foolish to forget such a thing and forfeit their lives so meaninglessly.

The footsteps grew closer, then stopped outside the door. The jangle of keys being lifted was accompanied by a set of sharp laughs, and from the corner of his eye he saw the Arabian frown, no doubt hoping for the same singular guard.

Blinding light filled the room, making him fasten his eyes tightly closed in spite of himself. Beside him, Quatre hissed.

"Good evening, gentlemen."

That voice was practically dripping with contained mirth, polite words or not. It took him a minute of gradually opening his eyes by degrees, but at last the Latin youth was able to look at the pair - no, the trio since there was one hovering beyond the two crowding the doorway - who had come to begin the game of war.

The one who had clearly spoken was slightly in the lead of his companions. A thirty-something male with shaggy black hair that hung messily around a tan and worn face, a quarter-sized scar resting on the left side of his jaw that looked like a close call with a bullet. Behind him was a stony faced blonde, a few years older than Trowa likely, but how many he couldn't tell. That one stared at them-through- them, as though considering cloud formations and nothing more. His gun was drawn, pointed at the taller of the two captives' faces almost carelessly.

The black hole watching him like a malicious eye was something that made this situation take on an even more sinister light in his mind. He didn't expect to get out of here without a fight, but seeing that made him sure that they'd both be losing some considerable blood in the process.

The third, peeking over the others' shoulders in a way that was almost comically shy considering the circumstances, was perhaps Quatre's age. A dark eyed being with hair the unlikely shade of freshly picked pomegranates.

His first impression that all three were dressed in the same uniform, black pants and jackets edged in ruby with an insignia that appeared to be a combination of a cross and downward pointing arrows over the heart, was proven both right and wrong as the front pair stepped into the cell and to the side.

The one he'd inwardly thought must be a trainee turned out to be wearing a long trench coat over his uniform, of the same colors as the others' more plain garb, and on his sleeves rested several assorted stripes and stars that made Trowa rapidly wary. Without their shoulders to block the rest of this one's expression, he could see a narrow nose that would have looked more on place in a models magazine, and a full mouth that was the color of rose petals that was currently formed into a serious pout. Determination, or distaste, he thought.

The individual that walked towards him and Quatre looked like he had walked out of a movie, where no matter what bad things happened, who he killed or what cities he blew up, the villain still looked perfectly presented and evilly inviting in the end. The click of his heels - and Trowa saw incredulously that they were at least three inches tall - were painfully crisp in the enclosed chamber.

"I see no need to continue on with such play, do either of you?" Such a honey dripped tone, like music from the speakers of a radio, and yet Trowa heard death in the rise and fall of it. "You know why we are here now, it's really just a matter of if we need to resort to violence, or if you are willing to speak up and spare yourself it."

The tall pilot certainly wasn't planning on speaking, and part of him was sure Quatre would do the same; stay silent and just ignore the individual. Speaking could lead to verbal traps after all, and it was best if nothing was given away. The blonde surprised him though, straightening up against the wall and giving the redhead a cool smile as he ever so politely answered.

"I'm afraid that just isn't possible. If we speak with you, we betray ourselves, and only die in a more swift way, isn't that true? You can supply us only with an 'easy way out'. I don't think myself or my companion are interested in your offer. What's a little pain in comparison to dying with some shred of dignity still intact?"

The blink the soldier gave him after the response was almost comical, but the icy anger that flooded his pitch black eyes wasn't. "Suit yourself. You are correct, in any case. I've been cleaning up the destruction of your break in for hours, and after seeing that, I think only a fool would just smile and send you along your way. We are not fools."

Quatre tipped his nose up, arrogantly, and for that second as he looked sideways, Trowa could see how Quatre must have existed so well in his previous life. That pose, even surrounded by the dingy backdrop of the cell and the stench of their own sweat and dirty clothes, was every inch the spoiled aristocrat who **knew** he'd be getting his way by the end of the night. "I see. Then thank you, and I believe we are done speaking. Good day."

The dismissal got the empty-eyed blonde's attention, a tiny smirk touching on his lips. The redhead looked more enraged, but it was visible only in his darkened eyes and in the tight frown of his lips. This was a man who almost had emotional control mirroring himself.

He nodded, stiffly, down at them, then turned on those high heels and moved briskly back through the door.

"Mr. Douglas, Mr. LeMont? Please proceed with our second plan." He paused then, glancing back over his shoulder with a flip of his hair, and eyeing the two bound on the floor thoughtfully. "Only… Start with the blonde, I think. Despite his attitude, he'll be the first to crack. And will do so quite hysterically, I've no doubt."

The blonde, LeMont, if Trowa was guessing right about the order in which they'd turned, raised an eyebrow and asked softly- "Mr. Chalmers? What if he doesn't?"

"He will…" He smiled, coolly, one pale hand coming up and pushing his bangs back. "If by some miracle, he doesn't however, simply take it as far as you can without flat out killing him… Then place him back in the cell, with his partner. Maybe watching him die sometime in the night will get the other one's tongue to loosen. If it doesn't, we'll wait another day. I'm sure by the third spent with a rotting corpse, he'll be feeling much more inclined to be sociable."

Those dark pools snapped back to Quatre, who was glaring up at him defiantly. "And now, goodnight to -you-. I've a hot bath, agreeable company and dinner waiting. Enjoy your accommodations, gentlemen."

Trowa stared mutely after him, still absently trying to separate this situation, which was happening to them whether he liked it or not, to one straight out of a war movie. _'Ve have vays of making you talk'. He should have said that, and it would have all been perfect._ Beside him, he could feel Quatre's fury building up, hot and heavy in the air with an odor he could almost pick up. Like burnt cinnamon.

The guards' eyes moved back to them, and even if they'd been stupid enough to come in together, Trowa wasn't sure how much he would have been able to accomplish with his hands bound and his body stiff from cold. As it was though, only one moved in; the blonde remained by the door, with that single black metal eye fixed on his head. "If you move, I won't hesitate in firing."

_Maybe that would be best._ He wasn't suicidal yet though, and as the older guard ducked down and looped a hand around the center of the cuffs Quatre wore, hauling him roughly to his feet, Trowa simply sat complacently still.

Quatre stumbled, tripping on feet that were no doubt filled with tingling spikes from their former position, and was caught by a large hand locking about the smooth column of his neck. It was this way, like a puppy that had messed on the floor and now needed to be put outside, that pilot 04 was bodily pulled from the cell.

They closed the door.

The click of the lock settling into it's bed was entirely too loud for Trowa's liking. It left his tongue feeling like a dried and dead thing in his mouth, and his spit tasting sour and acidic. His eyes felt like they were swimming in their sockets, and suddenly his body was all but screaming at the multitude of bruises and beatings it had taken.

It was more than enough to make the idea of just staying where he was sound good. Even better, to tip his head back, and use the moment of forced calmness now to rest since surely he'd need it. He would ignore the sounds that were bound to come, and just zone himself out.

So he got up. Bracing his back against the wall, and willing his heart to pump blood down into his long legs as he took the few stumbling short steps required to reach the iron barred window in the door. It's surface was cool against his feverish forehead, blessedly so in spite of the layer of dirt that covered everything in here.

He needed to see, to know what happened to the boy who had become his unexpected friend and tie to life. It would be his job to treat the wounds Quatre received as best he could, until they were rescued, or until something presented him from doing so. More than that though, some deep part of him demanded he see it. Like any follower would be helpless not to watch a battle issued to his divine, Trowa felt an obligation he wouldn't challenge.

Quatre was strung up between them, the younger one with one arm now locked through the boy's still cuffed appendages to hold him up. Little feet enclosed in those work boots that Trowa always thought looked so surprisingly fitting with the rest of his outfit stood on tip-toe just to keep him on the floor. He looked like a child's toy between the two men, one that had been thrown around one too many times.

He was looking up at the face before him, 'Mr. Douglas', and even from his place with the bars' shadows cutting across his olivine complexion, Trowa could see that blank and aimless distaste for the world in general shining in his eyes like embers. When that meaty fist drew back and the first blow landed, a careless punch that caved in the firm board of Quatre's stomach, he saw that light flicker and ignite brighter. Quatre didn't cry out.

Perhaps that was why things progressed so rapidly from that moment onward. Trowa could only guess. Maybe they had only planned to 'rough' him up, to beat him bruised and bloody in spite of the dark innuendo of their fair captain, then to toss him into the cell. The younger part of the Latin pilot's mind refused to look at the event unfolding before him in any other way. He had killed from within his machine himself, yes, but standing behind a solid door and watching Quatre get devastated felt so unreal… More like a scene on a television, where the actors all walked away just fine. That childish soul deep inside said that this was all really a game and not for keeps.

Ten minutes later, after the older soldier had pummeled Quatre everywhere from his now puffy cheeks and beautiful bleeding lips to his lower abdomen, and gotten nothing in return except at one point a slightly shaky breath from the boy, Trowa thought neither of them were truly surprised by the sinister glimmer of the knife that came into play.

He watched Quatre's eyes drop to the blade that protruded from one thick hand, and then watched them lift back to the face of his abuser. Mr. Douglas' forehead shone with sweat and his cheeks were furiously red. In truth, he looked worse than the battered boy before him, despite the sticky trail of blood that wound from the sweet corner of Quatre's mouth (hadn't he been eyeing that very spot just moments before), down the pale stretch of his throat to finally stain the neck of his shirt. The soldier looked tired and beaten, and all by a pale faced boy with eyes like the damned.

Quatre saw that blade, and Trowa saw no change in his expression. No fear. None of the anger that had been there earlier. Just the dusty remnants of a fallen angel. A shell that had apparently been deserted for months now.

The soldier saw something too.

Trowa saw his eyes widen as he stared down at that upturned face, and then saw them narrow in disgust and frustration. The other guard's mouth opened, he would remember that hours later, as if he wanted to call it all off himself before it got to serious. By then it was a little late though. The knife drew back, and though he wanted to, he couldn't look away. His idol was going to crumble before him, and it looked like Quatre wanted the darkness that the sharp edge of the knife promised.

It made a hissing sound during it's short trip through the musty air of the cells, and it sounded like the victorious sound of a snake after it had bitten and delivered it's life-stealing poison to his ears.

It's aim was true, and it was bound for the soft flesh just under Quatre ribs, for that gathering of muscles and organs on his side. One good cut, and likely Trowa would still be standing there open mouthed as he watched his strange friend's intestines tumble out like red ropes and stain his own shoes, watched them twitch around on the floor before the blonde toppled over to bury them beneath his small frame.

But something flared up in those storm-ridden eyes. He saw it as he looked up in alarm to the Arabian's face, convinced he was seeing Quatre alive for the last time. It grew in the blackness of his pupils with a life of it's own, and colored the orbs with an emotion Trowa had thought died months ago. That stubborn yearning for life.

Jaded as the boy was, enraged at the unchangeable nature of the world around him and his own lack of patience to figure it out, he still wanted the time to try.

Quatre turned, just slightly, in the time it took for the knife to make it's journey.

The blade that would have left him trying to hold his stomach in slide into muscles at the small of his back instead. It cut like butter, one hellishly clear vision for Trowa of it's tip dimpling the faded pink of Quatre's shirt, then moving through it only for the cloth to blossom immediately with color.

It buried to it's hilt, and more than anything right then, more than them all laughing and saying it was a joke and more than escape, Trowa wanted the color that spread on Quatre's shirt to be blue. He wanted inky blue-violet to be what emerged, wanted for that to be what fell uncaringly to the ground. Then maybe he could answer Quatre's question, and see something of the old Quatre appear in those hardened features.

The man got his sound as his hand fell away and he took a stumbling step back, the only confession Quatre made during that interrogation; a gasp of pain and, Trowa could swear, of relief.

Blood pattered musically down onto the cement floor, a therapist's splatter test for the morbid, and the blonde's eyes shimmered with unshed tears. Incredibly, Mr. Douglas' mouth seemed to be trying to form an apology, it's silent fish-like motions growing more rapid as those crystalline aqua eyes lifted to his, accusingly.

It was the other soldier who broke the near religious quality of the moment. He moved the hands that were holding Quatre's in order to step back, as the angelic boy's blood had started to soak his own shirt in it's hotness. Already, the lower half of the shirt most of his friends and fellow pilots had teased him about was a remarkable shade of tacky maroon, liquid gathering heavily in it's tucked-in creases and then seeping out to begin leaving traces down his tan pants.

"You idiot!" LeMont snarled that, unsettled, at the still gaping Douglas. Intelligently, he kept his hands around the blonde's wrists, though Quatre's expression was now looking distant.

Muddy eyes jumped up from where they'd lingered on what still protruded of the knife, and instantly he was defending himself. "But Mr. Chalmers said-"

"I don't care! Open the damned door! Now!"

Stumbling steps brought the man to the cell, and his fingers shook as he slammed a key home in the lock and turned it. Right then would have been the perfect moment for Trowa to make his escape, to grab the blonde and disarm the pair, then to run for freedom, but shock had claimed his body and instead he simply stepped away from the light as the door swung noisily inward. He slumped back in one corner, blinking wide owlish eyes at the hectically colored face of the guard. Then that was gone, replaced by the falling body of his comrade as the blonde man flung him inside.

There was no thought then, just a reaction and speed that even Heero would have been envious of. Trowa swept in out of the shadows and caught Quatre's limp form under his arms, cradling it to his chest as he fell to his knees and gently lowered it down. The slam of the door made him jump and made Quatre groan groggily, but it wasn't truly important.

He rolled the boy carefully over, swallowing a shiver of revulsion at the squishy feel of Quatre's shirt against his hands and legs, until he had that wounded side facing up. Stroking back the sweat dampened hair off a fair brow, he looked down at the face that had been a thunderhead for months, and saw nothing of that tainted god except for the thinness of the features. It was his Quatre that looked up at him, scared and trying to pretend he wasn't, with tears he still refused to shed even though they must be stinging his eyes. It was the boy who'd stepped out of Sandrock, and had smiled at him, a nameless stranger, in the middle of a war. The child who'd invited him home, fed him, and then reminded him of his love of music before Trowa had felt the need to move on again. Had he ever truly left that room again though? Hadn't his soul stayed, as his body walked the lonely miles, wrapped within the harmony of a song that together they'd brought to life?

"T-trowa… You've got to pull it out." A cold little hand brushed across his cheeks, startling him out of his memories. Quatre was looking up to him, cheeks colorless orbs and mouth stained of cherry kisses. "I think it missed… Most things, but it hurts, and you've got to get it out before it cuts more. You… -We, can't do anything if I have a k-knife sticking out my side."

_How brave he tries to act._ The brunette nodded, and steeled himself as he drew his hand away from that smooth skin, bringing it to the handle of the hated object that would mar the boy's waist.

It slid out like butter, far too easily, but Quatre couldn't contain the breathless gasp that passed over his lips and out into the cold air of their prison. Trowa tossed the horrid thing aside distastefully, clapping his hand over the wound and the river of blood that tried to follow in it's wake.

For several minutes they sat that way, Quatre looking blankly up past him, trying to cope and trying to catch his breath, and Trowa focusing on the hot throb of the blonde's life beneath his hand, and on trying to keep it where it belonged.

At last Quatre's gaze shifted to his, demanding his attention and he gave it. That pale face was set again, subdued and calm, but Quatre's eyes told his lie; they were terrified and yet resigned. "Trowa... I think maybe they got something important after all. I feel... I feel very cold now. I think that I'm going to die. When I do-"

His breath hitched, his throat working soundlessly for a moment before he croaked, "No, you aren't. You're going to be all right. We're going to get out of here and you're going to be-"

"No lies. Not now, Trowa. The world lies constantly, and I don't want that to be one of the last things you do to me too."

Thirty minutes ago, that would have shut the brunette up instantly. He would have retreated into the safety of quiet, and that would be that... But that Trowa hadn't seen the hints of his old angel in this delicate form, hadn't seen the shine of gold under a layer of dust.

"No lies then, Quatre." He shook his head, never tearing his eyes away from he upturned seeking gaze of his wounded friend. "You are -not- going to die. I won't let you."

Quatre smile. In that single, tired expression, Trowa could see that the blonde didn't believe him. Wanted to, but couldn't. He was being humored.

"Okay, I'll live... But can I ask a favor anyway?"

Somehow, I'll make sure that it isn't a lie, Quatre, I'll do that and then you'll have to stop and reconsider this whole thing. I'll make you see that not everything is full of hurt and deceitfulness, even if I have to be the honest that you search for. I'll become your truth if you need it.

He took hold of one of the cool hands that rested half-curled along side of his waist, lifting it and rubbing it's back with his thumb. "You can ask anything."

"Kiss me?" He wasn't even given time to react to his surprise before the blonde was continuing on, rapidly and in his shallow breaths, "I liked you, Trowa. I did since you first stepped out of your suit, but I thought..." He laughed, then winced as it hurt him. "It doesn't matter what I thought. I just didn't tell you... I guess I lied to myself that way, didn't I? I just... Now, I'd like it if you could do that, just so maybe I can finally come clean about at least one thing."

He couldn't move right away though, couldn't only stare down at those shadow riddles features and blink dully. How many dreams had he had with something like that being asked? How many dates had he imagined finally getting the courage up to ask Quatre out on, and then receiving a sweet little kiss at it's end? How many letters had he written and burned, and how many times had he hung up phones after only hitting the first three numbers? There was thousands and thousands of not started and not finished events in his life that concerned this beautiful blonde… And yet none of them had involved him holding the boy as he thought he was dying, and none had included a dirty floor and a drying puddle of blood. Here was his chance, and nothing was as it had been daydreamed of, and surprisingly wasn't that all right?

So just as Quatre was starting to look away, to call it off, he bent and softly pressed his mouth to the Arabian's. They were upside down, and so his nose clumsily bumped the other boy's chin, and with the retreat that Quatre'd been trying to do, and his own slowness his aim was off, but he caught the corner of those plush lips and it was perfect in spite of that.

There was the flawless soft warmth of the mouth under his, the soft whisper of breath as Quatre let out a startled sound, then they both turned towards each other at once and it really was like a dream to him. They could taste the salty tang of blood between them as their lips parted and their kiss grew a little more intimate, but that didn't matter to either of them.

When they parted a moment later, Trowa had the pleasure of seeing Quatre's face flush and his eyes closed. He looked preciously peaceful. When they opened, it was with the sweet shyness he'd once thought would break his heart in two.

"Thank you."

It sounded so formal in the face of what had just happened that Trowa had to smile, and when he did, the boy in his lap smiled too. In a cell in the middle of an enemy base, one stabbed and the other certain he was falling into a love deep enough to consume him, they both smiled at each other and things were momentarily okay.

"You look good when you do that. You ought to do so more often."

He brushed his fingers over the round curve of a cheek. "You ought to give me a reason to more often then."

Quatre blinked, his lips curled upwards even more as he closed his eyes again. "Maybe I will."

And just like that, Trowa felt he was watching the old Quatre try to expel his own demons. He was glad. He could have grabbed and shaken him, could have encouraged him, but really didn't these things only work when the person themselves played a hand?

XxXxXxXxX

The brunette sat there for an unspoken amount of hours, staring down at the slumbering face of the injured blonde and letting himself get lost in the maze of his thoughts. Absently, one of his hands stroked through the child's dirty sunshine hair, and in the same manner, a smile came and went on his misused lips. Quatre's dreams ironically, were peaceful, and he'd stirred only once to nuzzle in closer to the warmth the other pilot offered, his face now pressed against the rough jeans that covered Trowa's left thigh.

No one came, and he had heard nothing since the steps of their attackers had almost run down whatever hall stood beyond their impenetrable door, fleeing in the wake of the horror they'd wrought.

Outside, the sun had reached it's arch of afternoon and had then descended again. Their blind eyes were clueless that night had fallen just beyond the stone walls that surrounded them… And had no idea that in the darkness, creatures stirred.

XxXxXxXxX

When the explosion came, it was close enough to the small cramped space were Trowa and Quatre lay that the pair felt pebbles in the foundation around them come raining down on their heads.

Quatre was awake within seconds, trying to sit up and grabbing at his side with a yelp when it caused fresh blood to seep through the fingers of the hand that was already there.

"Stop. You'll hurt yourself." He sounded so calm, in spite of the fact that his eyes were huge, searching the dim light for some information as he tried very carefully to pull himself, and then his ward up onto their feet. He drew them back into the far corner of the cell. "Something's coming."

The Arabian licked his lips, then opened his mouth to ask what the brunette had meant, only to feel the small tremors in the ground himself.

Unlike Trowa, who's thoughts were filled suddenly with the red glow of a volcano that had finally erupted, of spilling embers and rain like fire, of a god who was furious for his traitorous hope, Quatre recognized the quakes.

"It's a gundam! Trowa, it's one of the gundams! The others, they must have come!" The blonde tried turning in the tight grip, and whimpered through his excitement when it caused his self proclaimed guardian's hand to drag over the knife wound. A dust covered and strained face turned up to his, eyes glittering with tears and hope, and the brunette turned his own away. "Trowa?"

Was it wrong that he wanted them to go away?

_He was asleep, and it was… It was right again. If they come, free us - free him , what happens then? Will he waste away all over? Will this wound heal over and lock the poison in his body again until he's just a statue of hate with a pretty face? … Will he remember that for once, in the darkness and near death, I meant something to him, or will that become one of his lies?_

_He wanted me to hold him… Wanted me to love him, I think. Will he want that still, outside?_

The part of his mind that remained untouched by his developing affection and fixation tried to reason with him by noting that it was the way most survivors of any tragedy felt, but that inner voice was just a whisper to the shouts of worry and paranoia.

"Trowa? What's wrong?" Quatre was hurt, confused and scared as he looked up at that blank expression. He brought a shaky hand up and pressed it's back along the feverish flesh of Trowa's cheek. "… We're going to get out of here. We're going to-"

_No. Our only future is in here. Together. You can love me in here, we can try, we can-_

"-have a chance, Trowa. You were right."

Emerald eyes slowly focused, shifted to the swimming pools of aqua before him. "A chance?"

The blonde nodded. Outside their cells came the sound of rapidly firing guns, of feet running now, though not yet to their prison. "Yes. To make stuff right. To… To live, you know? Maybe…" He bit his lip lightly between white teeth.

"… All right." That was all he answered with, that and the hand that rose to cover Quatre's, but it was enough so that the blonde knew what he actually meant. Three little words that circled within his mind, scattered through the turbulence seas of desire and damnation.

Love and worship. Adoration and obsession. Wasn't it all really the same thing? Quatre needed this pillar, to brace himself on until he learned to walk once more like he once had. And Trowa… needed him. Needed a dark god in whose shadow to hide in, craved an angel to cup his cheeks and kiss away the tears that never came… And an idol to drive him on.

Outside things would be different, as they always were, but Trowa knew for a while at least they would find a mutual peace and make what they could of it. They would use the blood spilt on the floor of this tiny oubliette, and write their new life with it.

… It would be an honest story.

XxXxXxXxX

When the bomb set by one braided and proudly smiling American at last blew the lock off the door, the pair walked out leaning on each other. They were lead to a hole in the base's wall, where the foot of one huge machine was visible just beyond, along with an none-to-happy pair of quietly arguing young brunettes.

Maybe a happily-ever-after didn't exist, but as Trowa wound his arm a little tighter around Quatre's weakened waist and pulled him out into the fresh air past Heero and Wufei, he intended to try and find out for himself.

_I'll be your truth._

XxXxXxX

((Pah. This was one of the shortest stories I've writen, by like ten pages, and the only one where Quatre behaves this way rather than the sweet and slightly romantically dense way I prefer him, so I'm not sure what I think of this story myself... It was fun to write though! Got to get thosenasty demons out somehow.o.o In anycase, I hope you liked it? Thanks again to my beta, the death Leprechaun Many-mun, and to Fishie for recommending him. And thank you to Quinn too, for the constant encouragement. It's him that most of my ideas are bounced at, so I appreciate his bruised body for this one. Please RR?))


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